Pappa Sets An Example And Shows His Backside

When you think of all of the changes in your life that will occur when you have a child, surgery is probably not on the list. Well, it wasn’t on mine. Those of you who have been reading for a while (or have seen me in person with my uber-awesome wrist brace, or as Michael calls it my “bowling glove”), then you know I was diagnosed with Pappa’s wrist. Okay, it is really called Mommy’s wrist, but I am renaming it in my case for obvious reasons.

Mommy’s wrist is technically known as de Quervain’s Syndrome. It is a restriction of the tendon in your wrist where your thumb meets your forearm. It is thought to be caused by any new, repetitive movement, such as lifting a child; hence, Pappa’s wrist. For such an innocent sounding syndrome it hurts like a mother clucker. Since we’ve had Estelle, I’ve learned a much more creative dialogue when expressing pain.

Boo inspecting his Oompa Loompa Arm post-surgery

This week I had surgery on my wrist. The first round of treatments didn’t work and since I don’t have the luxury (nor would I want it) to not pick up my daughter several times a day, surgery was the next option. Like everything else in our new lives as parents, we talk to everyone about what is going on. I was surprised to learn so many of our friends and readers had this same issue. While I was still anxious about it, it did make me feel better hearing all of the success stories.

Oh, one tip I’ve learned out of this. Not all doctors are created equal. Seems like common sense. Well, it is, but it was beautifully driven home through this exercise. You see, like any good patient, I not only talked to friends, but I got more than one physician’s opinion.

The second doctor gave the same diagnosis as the first, but had a slightly different (better sounding) procedure for the surgery. It was also different than the “standard” way that I had researched it would be done. Both doctors were specialists. Both seemed competent. Both had good credentials. Both came with good referrals. I felt slightly more comfortable with the process described by the second doctor, so I booked it. The day of, nay, moments before I was to go into the operating room, I was approached by the anesthesiologist who began describing a completely different procedure.

There I was laid out in the finest of hospital gowns trying to explain to this health care professional what she was saying was not what my doctor had described. The patient one bed over from me thankfully me chimed in to say that she was told the same thing by the same doctor. Finally, I said someone needs to sort this out. I’m not comfortable with this much confusion among doctors who are going to have me sedated in minutes. Moments later, my doctor appeared. I was expecting him to explain the confusion and help sort it out. Instead, he responded with a terse tone and proceeded to tell me I was wrong. Now mind you, it is possible. I do make errors every now and again, but not undergoing the procedure in question was the main reason I went with this doctor. We discussed it on no less than three occasions, including 30 minutes before he went back to the operating room. I gave him another opportunity to respond appropriately by politely refreshing his memory of each of our conversations, including the one we had less than an hour earlier. Rather than acknowledging it and the confusion, he balked. It was at the point I looked to Michael and said, “I’m done here.”

Michael wanted to clear it up, but by the doctor’s response, it was clear to me that wasn’t necessary. He was obviously not the doctor for me. As I stood up, turned around and gave a full view of my backside to the doctor while bending over to gather my clothes, I felt proud of my decision. I thought, what would I want Estelle to do if she was in this circumstance. I would want her to stand up and speak out anytime she is uncomfortable with a situation. I would want her to feel empowered to get up and leave. I did just that, gown flapping in the breeze. I walked out with Michael with my head held high. I knew that I did what was not only right for me, but what I would want my daughter to do.

What happened with the Daddy’s wrist? Well, I went ahead and scheduled the surgery with the first doctor. I had the procedure and traded in my “bowling glove” for some lovely surgical bandages. Michael says it is my first step toward trying to be immortal by beginning the mummification process. The jury is still out on whether the surgery was a success. Now that the swelling has gone down, I have noticed some improvement. I’m hopeful I will have the same success as many of you had. If I can only keep Estelle from trying to unravel my mummified arm, then that will be the real success.